


Blue Portals

by TheLittleLady



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: I am not throwing away my shot, I'm not great with tags, One Shot, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleLady/pseuds/TheLittleLady
Summary: A commentary to go along with SPG's latest album "Quintessential"; a fairly lighthearted series of one-shot chapters from the view of the heroes, as they each get picked up in preparation for the Necronaut's arrival, each from their place in history.





	1. Mozambique

_And now the story of Leopold Expeditus…_

 

Mountains look different everywhere. In Switzerland, they sprawl across the landscape, huge and majestic and streaked with white, while the Wild West of America offers grand, red-striped masses which seem to follow you across the landscape. No-one could tell you, in England, as it’s always too darn cloudy to see the blasted things.

 

Here, they were grey, barren and angular, stretching out of the ground like fingertips to the Sun, distorted shadows leaching the heat from the dusty earth. The hot air swam lazily through straw-like brush, until it was disturbed by the swift movement of a direwolf pack.

 

Their heads low to the ground, eyes wide as they constantly checked for hunting leopards or hidden reptiles, they moved through the undergrowth, noses twitching as they hunted a slowly dying scent. Glossy coats rippled in the sun over powerful shoulder muscles as they moved, occasionally pausing to raise their head and pant away the heat of the day. Following close behind them, lumbering without much care for what fell under its feet, was a young rhinoceros, flicking its ears tentatively and sniffing at the air for any signs of what were, by now, a long lost family. It twisted its head to cast a night-black eye over the load on its back, and huffed a steamy acknowledgement.

 

Leopold Expeditus, swaying gently from side to side, patted its back reassuringly and looked out over the landscape. He recognised the route they were taking as one he had avoided travelling before. A few months ago he had explored the land here with Taki, and had run into this rhino, then only a baby, running about madly, alone. Leopold had searched for its herd, Taki Büm Büm hunting the ground for their scent, but they had come up crash-less. Now, with Taki’s litter in tow, he had been amazed to find the rhino, still alive, still alone, and was certain that this time he would find the family. For now he had something he didn’t have before.

 

More noses.

 

But he had grown more worried as the day wore on, as the pack drew closer to a path he had studiously avoided before. As they moved in to a ridge between two encroaching mountain spikes, he saw the glow from a ridge not far away. It was still here. He grew anxious, fiddling with his moustache but, perhaps, the pack knew something he did not. They hadn’t lost pace as the mysterious blue light had come into view, growing more pronounced as the sky turned dark, and, to his surprise, had started to gain speed as they drew nearer. Leopold narrowed his eyes. The scent must be stronger here. What mysterious wizardry awaited him ahead?

 

Mosüss, one of the larger females, stopped first, and raised her head to catch Leopold’s eye. She pointed her snout at the fissure in the ground, to which they were now agonisingly close. The others stopped short as well, looking up at him and holding their tails erect. The runt, Arno, wagged his tail encouragingly, and panted.

Leopold slid off the rhino’s back, and walked slowly towards the glow.

“’Ere, _mes amis_?”

Mosüss snorted in agreement, and started to paw at the earth. Leopold looked down at his feet. The earth had cracked here, opening hairline fractures into the ground, which was nothing unusual in the environment. But usually they created a jigsaw with one another over the ground, where here other small fissures bled out from the glowing hole in the ground in front of him. It was (he judged, looking briefly over his shoulder for reference) about twice as long as a rhino, and about as wide, but impossible to see down into. Blue light filled it like water, and it flowed, making ripples off the sides. In the silence, Leopold could almost hear a fainty, tinny humming noise, like a hummingbird had landed in a feeding trough.

He knelt down, and removed his hat. He cautiously lowered it, and prodded the pool of light. It passed straight through, and Leopold felt no resistance to the movement. Ripples emanated outward from where he had touched it, and the tinny sound was overlaid with a deeper thrum. It sounded like “whhum”.

“ _Sacré bleu_ ,” he muttered. He noted the irony.

He looked up at Arno, who had lumbered over to sit next to him. Arno’s tail flicked, his head tilted inquisitively. Leopold raised his eyebrows and turned his face to the light, roughly translating as ‘ _what do you think?’._

 

Arno stood up onto all fours and lowered his snout, sniffing the light, eyes narrowed. He lay close to the ground, and extended a careful paw, slowly, gently.

 

He yelped as a man popped up out of the hole in front of his paw, and the pack darted away briefly with little huffs of panic. Leopold, who had been sitting back on his haunches, fell over with surprise, scuffling to stand without taking his eyes off the man in the blue pool.

 

“Good evening, sir. Leopold Expeditus, I believe?” The man addressed him, woodenly.

 

As his eyes became accustomed to the light, the silhouette of the man gained features. He had red hair, and a moustache. He wore a strange hat, black with a narrow brim. His skin gleamed alarmingly with the metallic sheen of bronze, and he held in one hand some flat, rectangular implement, hugged close to his chest, the other hand holding some sort of narrow quill poised over the rectangle. He was also, and perhaps most alarmingly, smiling.

 

Leopold, who hadn’t moved for several moments, took a breath and straightened his coat, clearing his throat.

 

“ _Oui, monsieur._ That is my name. But ‘ow do you know of it?”

 

“You are a great adventurer, sir,” said the man. “Your adventures are known throughout history.” He looked down and made a mark with his quill.

 

“What is that, which you are holding?” asked Leopold. He felt he might have many questions to ask, given the circumstances.

 

“Hmm?” The man looked down, and brandished the instrument, “Oh, this is a clipboard. I thought we may need to keep track. You’re number one on my list, you’ll be glad to know.”

 

“What list? From what circle of ‘ell are you greeting me?”

 

The man started, and held out a gloved hand. The clipboard fell out of it, and into the blue pool. Leopold heard a clatter, somewhere below.

 

“Greetings, friend. My name is Hatchworth. I apologise for my lack of introduction. I will remember, next time.”

 

Leopold took the hand, and shook it. The hand did not succumb to the vice-like grip of his handshake, but felt solid. It clinked as it moved.

 

“ ‘atchworth?”

 

“Yes, sir.”  


“I ‘ave many questions for you, ‘atchworh.”  


“I may need to answer some of those later, Mr Expeditus. Right now, we are in rather a hurry. Would you kindly step into the blue portal?” Hatchworth held out his hand to assist.

 

“This is a...portal, you say?”  


“Yes. Please step into it.”

 

“A portal to where?”

 

“A large manor house in western America, approximately 179 years from now.”

 

Leopold balked, “you expect me to jump into an ‘ole with a total stranger, and you are telling me also that I will be travelling into time? Whatever is this all?”

 

Hatchworth paused, lowering his arm. “My apologies again, sir. Allow me to explain. Many years from now, a star has exploded, taken over a human body as host, and is now on its way to planet Earth to destroy humanity slowly and painfully. I and my fellows at Walter Manor have been tasked with assembling some of history’s greatest heroes to prevent the demise of humankind. We are requesting your help to save us all.”

 

Leopold brightened up, “You ‘ave the greatest warriors? ‘Ave you Odysseus? Napoleon?”

 

Hatchworth made a non-committal noise, “The best who weren’t busy at the time.”

 

Leopold took Hatchworth’s outstretched arm and stepped down into the blue light. It tingled slightly, raising the hair on his legs. He turned to his pack, and the rhinoceros looking on worriedly.

 

“My pack and I were trying to find a crash of rhinoceroses. You ‘ave not seen them? I do not wish to leave the baby alone.”

 

“Oh, those are yours? We picked up a herd when we were looking for you here yesterday. We’ll put them back. Marshmallow hasn’t warmed to them.” Distantly, Leopold heard what sounded like a very heavy crash.

 

“My pack can join us? ‘ow long will we be gone?”

 

“Certainly, sir, their assistance would be much appreciated. And don’t worry. If you like, I’ll have you back yesterday.”

"Very well.   _On y va."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (fun fact; the bowler/derby hat wasn't invented until 1849, sometime during Leopold's lifetime. So he wouldn't have recognised what Hatchworth was wearing ;) )
> 
> Edit: inspired by the song "Leopold Expeditus", on Quintessential (Steam Powered Giraffe https://www.spgiraffestore.com/products/quintessential-2016)


	2. A cave

_Salgexicon…_

 

_Click_

 

_Thud_

 

“Ow.”

 

_Click_

 

_Click_

 

_Thunk_

 

“Ow.”

 

The deep cave should have been cold, dark, and damp. As it was, a warm fire in the centre of the uneven floor gave out enough heat and light to keep the inhabitants comfortable, even if it did burn with an eerie green hue.

 

One one side of the fire, two figures in heavy black robes sat facing one another thoughtfully over a square board, which hung quietly in the air. Should one have been foolish enough to kick aside their billowing robes from underneath them, one would’ve been perhaps unsurprised to find that neither person was necessarily sitting _on_ anything, either.

 

One of the pair raised a hand, picked up a small stone piece from a black square on the board, and placed it back down, one square to the left.

 

_Click_

 

His opponent, and sister, permitted herself a small smile and moved a piece of her own, across the board, placing it down with another satisfying click.

 

Salgexicon, and his band of brave adventurers, enjoyed the downtime between quests in different ways. Tonight he and his sister Scarla faced each other in a battle of wits, which neither of them would be pleased to lose. He picked up another stone troll, and moved it over one place. From his right came another fleshy thumping noise.

 

_Thud_

 

“Ow.”

 

Skurdgvyrm raised his axe again, bringing it down flat against Ardus’ shoulder plating.

 

_Thump_

 

“Ow.”

 

Salgexicon shook his head, turning his attention back to the game. On long evenings such as this, Skurdgvrm and Ardus seem to take immense pleasure in taking turns landing blows on one another, allegedly for ‘practice’. Salgexicon had his doubts about this, but after Ardus had attempted to offer that Salgexicon join in on the game, he’d decided not to question it any further*.

 

A huff from the mouth of the cave indicated that Bessie was still standing guard. Bessie, the undead Minotaur, often volunteered for guard duty. She didn’t sleep, anyway, and the others were usually grateful for the chance to rest their nasal passages.

 

Scarla gently lifted one of Salgexicon’s trolls from the table, and replaced it with one of her own dwarf pieces. She rested her head on one hand, throwing the troll over her shoulder with the other. As it flew, the piece burst into flame and disintegrated before it could hit the floor. Salgexicon looked up into his sister’s kohl-rimmed eyes. She blinked at him slowly, her mouth turning up into a lazy sidelong smile. He knew that look. He looked down at the game board, calculating furiously, and spotted it. She’d led him straight into a trap. No matter what his actions, she would win the game within the next 5 turns. Drat. She’d gloat about this for weeks, if she could. Salgexicon rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes darting over the board to find a way, any way, to avoid losing the game. He could feel Scarla’s smug gaze boring into the top of his head.

 

With a small sucking noise, a bright, blue light suddenly appeared between the two of them. Scarla gasped, stepping back in shock. Salgexicon, seizing his opportunity, released the spell holding the board up and sent it crashing to the floor.

 

It dropped a little way, then halted, one dwarf wobbling dangerously. Scarla stepped around the light, gave him a look, and lowered the board carefully to the floor.

 

Salgexicon’s staff appeared in his hand, and he braced himself for the impending battle. “Be prepared, good friends,” he boomed, “what mysteries have we here?”

 

Skurdgvrm and Ardus had scrambled to their feet and rushed around the fire to the light, weapons raised. An unearthly stench filled Salgexicon’s nostrils, informing him that Bessie was also not far behind.

 

The blue light remained still and silent, but grew until it was flat and round, like a mirror hanging in mid-air in front of the stunned group. Ardus wielded his mace uncertainly, trying to ascertain whether this was something which would smash or not.

 

“BRAVE ADVENTURERS!” A voice boomed from the blue light, and the group took an unconscious half-step away, “I COME TO YOU WITH A GREAT AND DANGEROUS QUEST. WE ARE FACING A GREAT AND TERRIBLE EVIL, AND ONLY YOU CAN SAVE US.”

 

In the moment of awkward silence which followed, Skurdgvrm lowered his axe, and looked sidelong at Salgexicon. “I didn’t know you could throw your voice, now,” he murmured, in an accent which could only be described as ‘spuriously Scottish’.

 

“I BEG YOUR PARDON?” boomed the light.

 

“I said,” retorted Skurdgvrm, walking to the light and staring up at it (which was a long was up, considering it extended from Salgexicon’s waist up to the top of his head), “Salgexicon, quit bein’ a wee scunner, I’ve had a long day.”

 

From the portal there came an indignant silence, with the sound of snickering in the background. They could hear mutterings of, “Rabbit, would you be quiet? They think I sound like Salgexicon? I sound nothing like him.”

 

The light flickered out and reappeared a few feet away with a small clunk.

 

“Rats,” came the voice from the light, “I think we glitched. CAN YOU STILL HEAR ME?”

 

“Yes, mysterious stranger,” proclaimed Salgexicon, “we can hear you.”

 

The light started muttering to itself again, “See, he sound nothing like me. HANG ON, I’M COMING THROUGH.”

 

A head appeared in the middle of the portal. It wore a wide-brimmed, black hat and a tightly-fitting black shirt, with silver metal over the face, and its eyes gleamed a deep green.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he touched the brim of his hand with a silver hand, “and ladies. My name’s The Spine. I’m afraid we’re in rather a hurry. Would you please join me through this portal to the aforementioned quest of honour and glory?”

 

Four heads turned to Salgexicon. He looked briefly down at the board game, and smiled, “Onward, brave adventurers!”

 

He marched forward to the portal, but was halted by a voice to his left.

 

“Hold on,” said Scarla, “I’m not sure about this. Do you really trust this metallic man?”

 

The Spine looked at her, and sighed inwardly. “One moment,” he said, and disappeared back into the portal. The group heard the unmistakable sound of a die being rolled across a table, and turned to look at Scarla.

 

Her eyes misted over for just a moment, before bursting into a wide grin. “Onward!” she cried.

 

And the gang ran forth into the rapidly widening portal, Salgexicon carefully kicking over the board game as he went.

 *****

 

 

*nursing a sore finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know a lot about d&d, but I gather persuasion rolls against players are unpopular. But who said The Spine was a good sport?
> 
> Fun fact number 2: Salgexicon and Scarla are playing a game here called Thud!, a board game created for, and featured in, the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, which I will always recommend reading if you haven't already.
> 
> Edit: Inspired by "Salgexicon", on Quintessential (Steam Powered Giraffe https://www.spgiraffestore.com/products/quintessential-2016)


	3. The Windows, Utah

_Rex Marksley, finest marksman in the West…_

 

Rex woke with a start, to the sound of hooves clattering nearby. By the light ebbing diffusely through the skin of his tent, it wasn’t long after dawn. And that was a lot of hooves.

 

“Rex Marksley, this is your reckoning. I suggest y’all come out without a fuss, if’n you want to die the honourable way.”

 

He heard the nearby cocking of a gun, and knew someone had it trained on the tent. He suspected they wouldn’t wait long for him.

 

“I’ll be on out in a jiffy, sir. Hold on just a moment...”

 

He put on his shirt jacket and hat, picked up his guns from their hiding place*, and slapped open the cylinder. He swore. Three bullets left. He holstered the guns, and felt, for the first time in his life, a cold sweat forming on his brow.

 

This was a fine howdy-do. He was on his way back into town from a mission which had taken him several days away. It had been a friendly so he was mostly unarmed, but the ammo he’d carried had already been spent on an ambush. And, if he wasn’t much mistaken, he knew who waited for him outside the tent.

 

His actions and attitudes towards the bandits out on the trail were becoming more and more well know. He was making a name for himself, and with that kind of fame came enemies. Bandits who wanted even. Families who saw him as the man who put their loved ones away. They’d tried to hunt him down before, individually, and those were easy battles, but he had known that eventually someone would cotton on that there were plenty of them and only one of him. He’d just hoped that, when the time came, he’d have a strategy worked out; something that didn’t involve being surrounded, in a tent, with three bullets, no horse and no lightening-glove.

 

“We are not patient men, Rex. You know that.”

 

Over Rex’s shoulder, just out of his field of vision, a blue light flickered into existence and vanished again with a faint pop, to which he was oblivious.

 

He stared ahead at the tent flap facing him. He couldn’t run; he’d camped up in one of the windows arches, backed right up to the cliff-edge, and beyond the deadly drop there was wide, flat land for miles. Even if he made it through the gang, they could watch him run for an hour and still gun him down without so much as a by-your-leave. He couldn’t fight – close combat had never been his forté, even one-on-one. He had three bullets. He couldn’t even rein up the birds; they’d still be asleep.

 

So this was it. Trapped by bandits, miles from home, no way out. This was the end for Rex Marksley.

 

He felt… strangely calm. He had always known it would come to this someday. But he could be proud of the legacy he’d leave. Never a shot missed. Never a chance thrown away. Never a bandit escaped. Never a man killed.

 

He ducked his head, and stood out of the tent, slowly and calmly, as a blue light opened up in the tent behind him. It flickered, jumped a foot or so back, and disappeared. He raised his head to view his executioners; a horde of men, each on horseback, each sporting their own selection of grisly scars, each with a gun pointed right at his face.

 

There was an almost respectful silence as he cast his eye over them, familiar faces all, coming to rest on the one matching the voice he’d heard from the tent, A shortish man in heavy dark cloth and a Derby hat.

 

“Mornin’, Bright Eye.”

 

The men before him were a selection of dim, dull-minded and the occasional half-wit. But Bright Eye was different. He stared out from black deep-set eyes under huge bushy eyebrows, but they gleamed with a light that said that whoever you were, wherever you came from, Bright Eye had already calculated how to bring you down. He was sharp as a pin, and patient, too. It might have taken years to explain to the men surrounding him, one at a time, very slowly, how and why they had to put aside their differences and gang up on the gunslinger Rex Marksley, and Bright Eye was the only one who could’ve done it. He was known all about as Bright Eye (and sometimes as Chuckle, but never to his face; he had never laughed, or even smiled that anyone knew).

 

Bright Eye leaned back in his saddle, satisfaction leaking into his face, “Rex Marksley. I always thought that was a funny name, Rex. That’s “King”, ain’t it? King o’ what?”

 

Rex tipped his hat, “King o’ nothin’, sir. That’s just what my momma named me. Didn’t get much say in the matter, as I recall.”

 

Bright Eye nodded sagely, his moustache twitching, “Don’t suppose no-one does. But that’ll do for the pleasantries. Mr Marksley, these gentlemen have a score to pick with you, as I’m sure you may have realised.”

“I never did anything to these men that wouldn’t have happened someways.”

 

“Be that as it may, you were the man to do it. And seein’ how you is an unfalterin’ man of the law, we have very little choice but to be dispatchin’ of you.”

 

The two men held their gaze with one another. Neither was particularly a man of anger. They both preferred to sit over a campfire somewhere and talk about the more important things. In another life, perhaps they would’ve been friends, but here there could only be a nod of admiration to a job well done.

 

Behind Bright Eye, one of the men coughed irritably. The collective attention span was being tested to its limit. Further away still, a blue window appeared behind the horses, held there for a moment, flitted from side to side like a bad TV reception, and disappeared again. If he’d not been concentrating hard on the long words Bright Eye was using, the nearest bandit would’ve heard the faint cry of “rats” as the light vanished.

 

“I don’t suppose,” Rex began, “that I’ll be facin’ you one at a time?”

 

“Now, Rex, you know why I can’t be doin’ that,” said Bright Eye, almost sadly. “For one thing, we would be here all day, and somethin’ tells me you just don’t have that many bullets.” Behind him, some of the men chortled darkly. “And more importantly, you’re too damn good a shot. You and I both know if I gave you the chance you could shoot down every damn man out here.”

 

Bright Eye idly ran a thumb over his moustache, “But I am not an unreasonable man. You take the first shot. Might as well take one of us down with you.”

 

A few of the other bandits, the brighter ones, started to fidget. A death sentence had never been on the agenda. But Rex shook his head, “You know I never did kill a man, Bright Eye.”

 

“Well, that there’s your lookout. Fire at will, Mr Marksley. It’s been an honour talkin’ with you.”

 

“And with you, Bright Eye. I’m sorry it has to end like this.”

 

“I’ll raise a glass to you at the bar.”

 

Rex raised a hand to his holster, slowly, hoping the other bandits would keep to Bright Eye’s word as he slowly scanned the landscape, just one last time. The ground dropped away in front of him, opening out into a vast, copper-red desert, disrupted here and there with huge rusted spires and arches, catching the dawn light as it came in through the gaping arch behind him. He wished he could turn around and see the sunrise through the Window one last time, without someone shooting him, as the Sun pressed into the sky, soaking the land in warm orange light, at the shrubs and cacti fighting their way into existence. He loved this land so much it hurt. He didn’t want to leave it, but he couldn’t think of a better place to die. In all the US of A, he could think of no place that better described what he could feel here. _Freedom_.

 

He was ready.

 

Rex Marksley, finest marksman in the West, unholstered his gun, and smiled. He lifted his eyes to the motley crew. He felt some final words were appropriate.

 

“Raise a glass,” he said simply, “to freedom.”

 

He aimed his pistol at the sky.

 

“Wait!”

 

 

A single shot rang out over the landscape.

 

 

They say, when you are a moment from death, that time slows down, and your whole life flashes past your eyes, as the librarian of the mind filters through the Filing Cabinet of life for some shred of information which could save you. Rex Marksley’s life did not flash before his eyes, but, perhaps, time lost its urgent pace. To an observer, certainly a little loss of speed would be useful in explaining what happened next, which took place over maybe a fraction of a second.

 

Rex did not have time to follow the cry of “wait!” to its origin, which was somewhere above his head. If he had, he would have seen a bright blue portal, appearing a moment earlier, facing flat with the ground, through which he would’ve seen a rather astonished silver face. He would’ve seen the portal close, swallowing the bullet as it went, to be replaced by the brightening blue sky.

 

What he couldn’t then have seen was the portal reopen slowly a few yards away, tilted the right way up this time, from which there resounded a metallic “ping”. The bullet re-emerged, passing loudly under the many legs of the waiting steeds, and grazing the shin of one before entering once again into the portal, which had flickered several metres sideways, and from which there was another noise, unmistakably that of a bullet ricocheting off metal plating. As the bullet reappeared, the portal had moved again, to narrowly in front of the delicate ears of the horses, the bullet whispering loudly past each horse before embedding itself in the rock wall nearby. The portal flickered in and out of view several times, across, above and behind the bandits, with loud popping noises.

 

Over the moment of an instant, the horses experienced a swarm of weird blue creatures which was trying to kill them, and spooked. They reared up, eyes rolling madly, steaming and foaming with panic, some bolting, some twisting wildly and kicking madly out behind them, some tossing up onto their hind legs, and their riders, utterly perplexed, were kicked, thrown and generally removed from the horses to being distributed over the nearby desert, their screams and yells not helping the general situation.

 

As the screams either died into the distance or dwindled into nearby groans of pain and misery, the blue portals movements became less erratic, eventually settling upright a few steps in front of Rex Marksley, now silent except for some almost inaudible mutterings**. He stared at it wide-eyed, his arm still raised to the sky. As he stared at the portal, one voice, close, dark and deep, came into the foreground.

 

“Ow.”

 

A wide, black hat appeared through the portal, closely followed by a silver man, rubbing a dent in his temple. “Are you quite done?” he addressed Rex, a note of irritation in his voice.

 

Further away, a growl made Rex look up to see Bright Eye, still standing astride his horse, his gun aimed square at Rex’s heart. His dark eyes were full of fire.

 

“What the hell is this?” he spat.

 

Rex glanced down at the portal, “I have not the faintest idea, sir.” And, feeling a little craftsmanship was due, lowered his arm from the sky and fired his second bullet straight down the barrel of Bright Eye’s gun, who dropped it with a yelp.

 

Gingerly cradling what was now very probably a broken shooting hand, Bright Eye grimaced at Rex. “I should’er’ known you were into some sorta black magic. That's your voice coming from that damn blue hole.”

 

The silver man’s nostrils flaired. “Oh for pity’s sake, I don’t sound _anything_ like him,” he called out, trying to twist around the portal in an attempt to address his accuser.

 

Rex smiled, clapping a hand onto the silver man’s shoulders as he holstered his gun (then shaking the hand when it stung at the impact), “Sir, you’ve done me a helluva service here today in your blue magic-thing. I’m forever in your gratitude, though I suggest you stay away from Bright Eye if you want to wake up tomorrow.”

 

The metal man returned the smile and tipped his hat, “I’m sorry, sir, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important. My name’s The Spine. I assume I’m addressing the great marksman Rex Marksley?”

 

“That’s the name, Mr Spine. And if you hadn’t interrupted, these here bandits would’ve been the end of me.”

 

The Spine started, and looked to the ground either side of the portal, “Bandits? How many?”

Rex looked around at the groaning individuals*** nearby, and off into the distance, where a cloud of dust suggested some of the horses had decided they had no intention of stopping.

 

“About… 37, I’d say?”

 

The Spine smiled sidelong at him, “37? Round it up. It scans better.”

 *****

 

 

*As the old saying goes, a wise man doesn’t sleep with a gun in his pocket.

 

**“P-p-peter, I think the portal s-s-stopped glitching! Well of course _I’m_ still g-g-glitching, it’s an adorable personality trait...”

 

 _***_ “My leg! My leg...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's my take on how Rex Marksley disarmed 40 bandits with 2 shots. 
> 
> Bonus points if you pick up the trendy modern-culture references :)
> 
> Edit: Inspired by "Rex Marksley", The 2-cent Show (Steam Powered Giraffe, www.spgiraffestore.com/collections/music-albums/products/steam-powered-giraffe-the-2-show-cd)


	4. The Abode of Mz Moreau

_From then on out, she ate her foes, Miss Delilah Moreau…_

 

_1896_

 

A beautiful young woman stood in the laboratory, a vial of glowing liquid raised to her face. The glow illuminated her skin, giving it a faint green tinge. She wasn’t particularly looking at anything in the vial, but sometimes, as a woman of science, she felt it was necessary to hold up a vial and look thoughtfully at it.

 

But it felt heavy. She put it down as carefully as she was able, took a few steps back and lowered herself into a small rocking chair she’d brought into the lab. She leant back, and closed her eyes until the dizzy spell passed. The light-headedness and the pains had gradually got worse. She looked at her hand in the light, growing dimmer the weaker she became. The hand was thin, the skin dry and pale. She smiled wearily to herself. She felt so tired. She wasn’t sure if she could get up from the chair, but she could wait and rest until Peter or Thadeus came to help her up. They would always come.

 

This was not the Delilah Moreau that the robots came for.

 

***

 

_1897_

 

Delilah wept bitter tears, huddled in front of an open fire in her room. She remembered when her eyes would be red and puffed from crying so many hours. Cold, greenish tears dripped over her nose, but her eyes were still clear and hauntingly beautiful. Her hair hung, dank and greasy over drawn cheeks. She remembered when sitting this close to the fire would have left her scorched. Now she could be lying in the flames, and she’d still feel cold. She raked at her stomach. She remembered the taste of an apple, before it gave her no sustenance. She was so hungry, and hated herself for it. She had no need to drink, she couldn’t die anyway. If she didn’t drink, she lay here consumed by the pain of her own hunger. If she ate, she lay sobbing as she wiped the blood from her mouth.

 

This was not the Delilah Moreau that the robots came for.

 

***

 

_1939_

 

Greasy black wings spread wide, Delilah screamed as she descended through the sky. She landed, crouching on all fours, glaring out wildly from under a matt of black hair. She emitted another guttural scream as she saw her prey, vanishing away into the mist, his eyes wide with terror. He tried to transform, but as his wings formed she slammed him to the ground, and tore a chunk of flesh from his shoulder with her teeth as he let out a shriek of agony, his own fangs biting through his lip.

 

She let him go, chewing happily, to run a little way before she spread her wings again. She liked to get a little exercise with dinner.

 

This, thank goodness, was not the Delilah Moreau that the robots came for.

 

***

 

_2016_

 

This was the Delilah Moreau that the robots came for.

 

At a glance, in a strange light, you could believe that the face of the woman sitting in the mahogany armchair, calmly swirling a glass of deep red wine, was that of a pretty young lady. Looking a little closer, a little longer, and yes, the skin is young, if pale, the lips plump and painted blood red, if fanged, and the eyes smokey with perfectly drawn wings, but here there is a weariness, a sadness, and a wisdom that should be beyond her years.

 

Her hair, long, silky and black, is combed back and off to one side. Tonight, she wears a long black dress, glossy bat-wings flexing occasionally through carefully made slits. Her fingernails are a deep red, painted with gel-varnish to save on fuss.

 

The room, dark, with grey stone walls, is cold enough that a man's breath would mist. Delilah does not have this problem, and saves on fuel costs.

 

She lowers the wine glass, picks up a knife and fork, and carves herself a slice of meat from her plate. She chews it slowly, savouring the taste. The meat is cold, and raw. She prefers it somewhere around body temperature, but couldn't be bothered with cooking tonight.

 

A sound, like a sucker being pulled from a window, makes her look up. Through the open doorway, with a click and a small hiss, saunters a robot with a face she knows only too well. She sighs, and puts down her cutlery.

 

"Rabbit, darling." Her voice is hushed, low and soft. "A new face?"

 

"Always the same face, Delilah. Just different decor." Rabbit leans back against the wall, and nods to Delilah’s plate, "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting someone."

 

Delilah gently pushes the plate away, "Werewolf, masquerading as a politician. Rather an unpleasant man. The soul doesn't keep, you know, but the meat tides me over for a little while." She leans forward in her chair, interlocking her fingers and resting her chin on them. “How long has it been? 25 years? I’ve followed your musical career with interest.”

 

“26. You are calmer than you were, then.”

 

“You’re more female than you were, then.”

 

Rabbit raised her eyebrows, almost sadly, “We found my plans. I was always supposed to be you, Delilah.”

 

Delilah sighs, and indicates a chair by the table. Rabbit walks over and sits, close enough that Delilah can really look into her face. Under all the copper and porcelain, they were her cheekbones, her smile. But Rabbit’s eyes glow blue and green in a way hers can’t.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of you breaking into my home?”

 

“A world catastrophe. But it can wait. I missed our talks.”

 

Rabbit never knew Delilah when she was alive. They had met, but Rabbit had no core, no memories, only programmed to smile and sing beautifully. Delilah’s death had triggered Peter Walter the first to bring Rabbit to life, even then he couldn’t build her how he’d wanted. It hurt too much to see Delilah’s face.

 

After Thadeus Becile had brought Delilah back from the grave, hungry for life-blood, she hunted at county fairs. It was there, a year or so later, that the Steam Man Band had performed on stage. Seeing the miracle of engineering they had become, Delilah got talking to them. They came around every few years, and she looked forward to their visits. She and Rabbit would talk, about some of the things in life they couldn’t say to anyone else.

 

But even with Rabbit council, Delilah snapped, one day. She’d killed so many, to stay alive, for so many years. She delved into a dark world to rid herself of her curse, at least hoping to die trying. It didn’t go well. She hungered for flesh, for souls. She gained wings, and lost her sanity. The last time she saw Rabbit, she tried to eat one of his workers. But madness had lasted years. In a body that couldn't die, Delilah went, perhaps, all the way through insanity to the other side. 

 

“Schools of thought have changed so much, Rabbit, since we were young. Technology has moved on so far.”

 

Rabbit smiles, “They’ve not caught up with me just yet.”

 

“You cheated. The rest of the world is limited to science. You and I are wrapped up in magic.”

 

“ ‘A performance that may some day be considered understandable, but that, in these primitive times, so transcends what is said to be the known; that it is what I mean by magic’ “

 

“Charles Fort.”

 

“Indeed. Magic is only science not yet understood.”

 

“I could understand tapping into a trans-dimensional source of energy to be poorly-understood science. But my existence? I lived twenty years or more as a chemist. I understand how the world is supposed to work. I know that with no heartbeat or respiration, a human should be dead. But I have neural activity. I’m speaking to you now, though no breath passed my vocal cords. I crave flesh, though it serves no purpose. There is a significant imbalance between the energy I consume and that I can release. It makes no sense, Rabbit.”

 

“And physicists are forever searching for matter which they can’t find, despite the fact that it should be everywhere. It seems strange now, but give it time.”

 

“I have plenty of it.” Delilah reaches over to her wine glass, taking a gulp. The drink is almost tasteless to her, but old habits are hard to break.

 

“I want to ask something, by which I don’t mean to cause offence. After your latest transformation, are you still immortal?”

 

“Is this anything to do with your catastrophe?”

 

“Partly.”

 

“I don’t know. I still feel alive, but I don’t try to die with as much fervour as I used to. Throw me the end of the world, we’ll see what happens.”

 

Rabbit pauses, a thought ticking over in her clockwork, “I think, Delilah… We’re going into battle, against something stronger than anything I know. I’m afraid I might die.”

 

“It’s easier that you think.”

 

“Delilah!”

 

Delilah resists a small smile. “Rabbit, it’s hard to console you on something I found so easy the first time round. It was so long ago.”

 

She looks up, eyes weary, “We’ve been around a long time, you and I. We’ve felt a lot of pain, a lot of suffering. What could anyone possibly throw at us what we haven’t already experienced or imagined?”

 

“He could destroy the whole world.”

 

“The world’s going to do that anyway, sooner or later.” With the convenience of bat wings, Delilah never owned a car, and a lack of body temperature removes the need for central heating, heftily reducing her carbon footprint. If she’s going to live to see the human race die by slow-roast, she’ll be damned if she’s helping, “Listen, Rabbit, I know you feel responsible for humans, but there’s only so far you can protect them against themselves. Try too hard, and you’ll bring them back to life as flesh-eating monstrosities. And that job’s filled.”

 

“We’re trying pretty hard to stop that happening. Which is where you come in.”

 

“Exactly what sort of trouble are we in?”  


Rabbit pauses, thinking through her phrasing, “Do you remember Pappy’s grandson Peter?”

 

“The name’s familiar, yes.”

 

“He became an astronaut. And, in short, his body’s been taken over by a star and he’s coming to take over the world.”

 

“Hmm. Novel. A star, you say?”

 

“An evil star, if that helps.”

 

“It does, yes. How long have we got?”

 

“Technically, about 200 years, but we’d rather get on with it.”

 

“Well, let me finish my dinner and I’ll be right with you. I’d guess you have some time-travel device?”  


“Peter VI developed blue-portal travel. We’re using it to gather heroes from over space-time.”

 

Delilah closes her eyes, “Peter Walter, the sixth? How is he related to the one who went to space?”

 

“He’s his great nephew.”

 

Delilah cuts herself a large piece of meat, and chews it over slowly, “So you’ve wandered into my home over dinner,” she says eventually, “to tell me that your owner is building an army to save the world from Uncle Peter?”

 

“It’s more of a squad than an army, but yes.”

 

Delilah shakes her head, cutting up her dinner, “and to think none of this would’ve happened if Thadeus and Peter could just take a hint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delilah Moreau is by far my favourite song on Quintessential. To me she sounds like an utter BADASS, but she's also a Scientist Vampire Queen. Read highly intelligent, killed a whole load of people, but been around long enough to be surprised by nothing. It just struck me that she would get on really well with Rabbit, if they had the chance. And yes, I'm wholly of the opinion that Delilah having zero interest in Peter or Thadeus, probably said "No, I'm not interested" on a number of occasions (probably closely followed by "did you make a robot that looks like me? Do you realise how creepy that is?"), but they probably never listened. Pfft. Never give a scientist a crush.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, ladies and gentlemen, I really appreciate it. The idea for this popped into my head when I realised blue portals were referenced in Leopold Expeditus, so I thought through the heroes and have been writing a chapter each night. It's been really fun, so far, just thinking how all the different heroes would interact with the robots. 2 more to go...
> 
> Edit: Inspired by "The Ballad of Delilah Moreau", from Quintessential (Steam Powered Giraffe)


	5. The Sea Slater

_That Captain Albert Alexander, he’ll go down in history…_

 

If you were to fly low over the ocean, rising and falling with the waves, you’d notice how all the sound gets sucked in the salt water. The wind blows, the sea crashes, and all other noise is drowned away. Unless you were to spot a large, white-sailed ship on the horizon, and fly towards it. As it gets closer you’d start to hear the sounds of chanting on the deck. A little closer, and you hear the thump of mop handles on the deck. A little closer still, and there are words on the hull, and a royal insignia; the ship “The Sea Slater”.

 

Captain Albert Alexander walked out of his cabin and onto a deck bathed in moonlight, faces lit up by storm lanterns. The day’s journey had been clear and steady, and the crew were in a good mood. Their young captain believed in two things; singing, and lemons. He swore by both, and his crew was one of the happiest in Her Majesty’s Navy. He walked into a chorus of men cheering on a knarled, bristly sailor, hanging from the rigging, singing a song of the sea. He also walked into, he noticed with a waft of his hand, a hint of the spirit.

 

“Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee will kiss you ‘til your lips bleed, but she will not take her dress off!” The sailor sang, bouncing upside-down in the rigging and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. He was egged on by jeers from the rest of the crew, while the captain rested his back against the cabin door and smiled. It had been a long month. They deserved a bit of frivolity. As he got round to the chorus (via a few twists and turns as he forgot the lyrics, much to everyone’s amusement), the others began to join in, throwing their hands over one another’s shoulders and swaying from side to side, more in time to the surge of the sea that the music.

 

“ ’Cause Mary Anne’s a bitch, Mary Anne’s a bitch...”

 

Captain Alexander walked through his crew, occasionally clapping a hand over a man’s shoulder with a smile. He had his days, but the crew knew him as a fair man. He stopped at a man who stood hunched over on the side of the boat, a heavy black clock covering his shoulders, a tricorn hat covering his face. A prickle up the back of his neck told him this was a man he did not know as one of his own. His eyes narrowed.

 

“Is there somethin’ I can be doin’ for you, Cap’n?”

 

A silence spread out from the man on the deck. Those closest had heard the voice, and like Captain Alexander had registered it as unfamiliar. He spoke in a lilting baritone, his words tinged with a soft Irish accent. He did not lift his head.

 

Captain Alexander’s nostrils flared. “A stowaway, on my ship,” he growled. His own voice was low and usually melodious, but now carried a bite under his Scottish tones.

 

“If that’s what you’d prefer to call me, Cap’n.”

 

“I’ll have you know that being found as a stowaway on my ship is treason!”

 

“I’m not sure this counts as bein’ found, Cap’n. Seein’ as how I’ve come standin’ out here in the open.”

 

Captain Alexander opened his mouth, and closed it again. The eyes of the crew were now steady on him (if not all the right way up).

 

“Well, then, stand up, man, and tell me your name so I can arrest you in the name of the Queen!”

He heard something that sounded like a snort, and the stranger stood, unfolding himself from the side of the ship. He was tall, his cloak and the shadow of his hat under the moonlight hiding him from his observers. Except, Captain Alexander noticed, for a brief glimpse of silver. He wore a sword.

 

“I don’t think – hold on now, which Queen are we on, just at the moment?”

 

Captain Alexander’s eyes widened. Surely not even the Irish could be so disconnected?

“Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria, o’ course!”

 

“God Save The Queen!” came the unconscious cry from the crew. He had them well trained.

 

“Ah, right,” said the stranger, “Never actually met that one. Met Liz. She’s rather a fan, actually.”

 

“What in heaven’s name are you on about?”

 

The stranger shrugged, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I would’ve thought the more interesting question was, why am I here?”

 

Captain Alexander knew he had two choices. Ignore the stranger’s strange invitations to conversation, and arrest him at once, or continue the conversation. Given that the man looked somewhat tall in stature, and that the finest of his men couldn’t currently walk in a straight line, he opted for the latter.

 

“A’right, why are you here?”

 

There was a moment of confusion among the crew as a flurry of movement occurred between the two men. In an instant, the man had drawn his sword from the scabbard, and held it paused before him. With the first twitch, Captain Alexander had done the same, and they now stood, poised, their swords within an inch of each other at the very tip.

 

“Capt’n Albert Alexander!” The man cried, theatrically, “I challenge you to a duel, right here, right now!”

 

“I… what? Now? Why?”

 

“I hear you’re quite the swordsman. I wanted to see it for meself.”

 

Captain Alexander was at a loss for words. A man had snuck onto his ship, stayed hidden (and alive) on the boat for 2 months at the least, and appears on the deck now to play sword games? Whatever for? He tried to think it all through, how to diffuse the situation, but before he could think the man had attempted to knock the sword from his hands, which he deflected before he had time to think on it. The man struck again, and was diverted off.

 

What followed, said his crew later, was possibly the finest battle ever fought between two swords. It was almost elegant, the two players dancing back and forth, spinning and forcing each other onto the rigging, into the bird’s nest, over the sails, around the steering wheel. It would have gone down in history, if any of the sailors aboard that day could write a song. Captain Alexander marvelled at his opponent; he knew no-one who matched his skills on the sea, and while the man’s thrusts were disconnected, with no flow from one move to the next, his reflexes were astonishing. Every blow he tried to land was fended off, almost before he’d begun. He racked his brain, looking for any weak point in the man’s defence. But there was nothing. Except… in those brief moments of the stranger’s attacks. He would have to carefully fail a deflection, there, and then…

As the man stepped back, the Captain landed a blow that ran the blade along his shoulder and then, crucially, knocked his hat off. The distraction would give him just time to land a blow to the head and knock him unconscious…

 

He felt the blade run across metal, and the hat fell away, long black hair slipping out to fall over the shoulders.

 

“You’re wearing armour!” The Captain cried out.

 

“No, sweetie. I am-am-am armour, if you like. Not a lot to cut.” The stranger’s voice had changed; it was lighter, more feminine, the Irish lilt replaced with an American twang. There was an audible sucking in of breath from the rest of the crew as they heard her voice. She looked up at the Captain from underneath long, fluttering lashes, her lips twisted in a flirtatious smile, “Sorry to bother you, C-c-captain, but we’re going to need a favour.”

 

Captain Alexander grimaced, tucking his sword away, “It’s bad luck to have a woman on board the ship.”

 

Rabbit, too, sheathed her sword, and sashayed up to him, smiling, until she stood nose to nose, and hissed steam from her cheek. She spoke, quietly and seductively.

 

“I’d like to see you try to pick me up, and throw me over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Regina Spektor for "Sailor Song" :)
> 
> Edit: Inspired for "Captain Albert Alexander", Album One (Steam Powered Giraffe)


	6. Walter Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm not one who takes music prompts with reading, partly because I can't listen and read at the same time, there are two pieces which writing this brought to my mind.
> 
> The first is a song which, even though I know almost nothing about her, I feel would encapsulate the spirit of the samurai. It also happens to be one of my favourite pieces, full of a power that washes over me every time: Fantasy on a Japanese Folk Song, by Samuel R Hazo  
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhrOde0qT78&list=PLRxTVi7EhqWpjmLYOdNvL6zgztpKKTsGO&index=11
> 
> The second is a Barbra Streisand delight, but being a fanatic of harmony I first met this song through barbershop, which I promise you is alive and well. The words cut deep, and come to mind as I thought through The Spine's ordeals here. I'll let the song say the rest for me; The Way We Were, by Alan Bergman, Marilyn Bergman and Marvin Hamlisch, as sung by Masters of Harmony (excuse the coughing).  
> https://youtu.be/CrezAARxpxU?t=13s

_All these memories, I can’t wash them away…_

 

In movies, the laboratory of the bad guy is usually white, immaculately clean, and bustling with intelligent people in white coats who firmly believe they're in a good job with an excellent pension scheme. It's easy to see who the good guy is because he works from home, in a dark, homemade lab, with computers on every low lit wall and papers strewn everywhere else (and a coffee cup, for good measure).

This room was somewhere else; a small, rectangular room, with stone-brick walls and an old carpet strategically placed in the centre, and monitors jutting from every wall, emitting occasional beeping noises. On one wall, in particular, a smiling green face peered out. There were no lights; instead, in the centre of the room stood something not unlike an old mirror, with heavy metal decoration all around its rim, but in place of glass there hung a strange light, illuminating the room in a soft blue glow. A desk was placed in front of it, off to the side a little and, on the desk, a clipboard.

The blue glow caught the face of The Spine, looking down at the clipboard; at the last name on the clipboard. His body was still, his shoulders stooped.

A familiar click told him his little brother stood in the doorway, watching him. The Spine didn't look up.

"Are you OK, Spine?"

For a while, he didn't answer, but Hatchworth was patient, and knew The Spine too well. As the silence drew out, he stood and waited.

He heard Hatchworth step closer, "If you want to talk-"

"I'm not ready."

The Spine had cut in, his voice dark and clipped.

"I know." Hatchworth usually had a stilted, jerky tone, but now his voice was soft, sympathetic. The Spine wasn't in the mood for his sympathy. Not now.

"Just... give me some time, OK?"

Without a word, Hatchworth departed, and the room was almost quiet. Just The Spine, and a large blue portal. The only thing standing between him and...

He walked towards the portal, currently deactivated, and rested his hand on it. It vibrated softly under his fingers. They needed her there to fight, he knew, and he should be overjoyed to see her again. But he had loved her so. She had died in her arms. How could he see her again, after that? And what if something happened to her out here? Could he watch it happen, all over again? And if she survived... how could he possibly send her back, knowing what he was sending her to?

It hurt so much to think of her. A memory flashed in front of his eyes, smiling, laughing. A perfect memory, he thought bitterly. They were all perfect.

He wished he could say he didn't know how long he stood there, but he knew. His internal clock couldn't be turned off. He knew how long he stood there. He knew how old he was. He knew for how long he'd been with her and he knew, to the damn second, how long he'd lived without her.

Earlier, as they had drawn up the plans of who they needed, it was Rabbit who had mentioned her name. He’d pleaded, no, anyone but her. But they all knew they needed her.

“You saw how good she was with the b-b-b-blade, Spine,” Rabbit had said.

“Then why did she lose?” He’d spat back.

“You _know_ the answer to that. If you’re going to make excuses for why we can’t use her, then let’s start with how-how-how you feel, rather than some rubbish about her not being the best darn samurai there was.”

The words rang through his head. They’d left him, ultimately, with all the decisions. Should they look for her before she knew The Spine, or afterwards? He remembered the surprise in her eyes when she’d first met him. No, there would be too many new and terrifying things to show her. She had to trust them, or she’d never walk through the portal. But if she knew them… she would see him. She’d know that she wasn’t there. She’d want to know why.

He’d heard humans have the conversation so many times, in the evenings around a warm, welcome fire, or sitting round a table, glass in hand. If you could spend just one more day with someone you’d lost, would you? What would you talk about?

He sneered at the thought. It came with the precursor that afterwards, you could send them back to the happy afterlife you’d drawn them from, not back to a death they hadn’t yet met.

“Think about it, Spine,” Rabbit had said, “If she was in your shoes, what would she do?”

He snarled bitterly at the thought. He had no frame of reference. He would never have a lover who could outlive him. He would always be left behind. There _was_ no-one else. Five robots, his brothers and sisters.

He knew there were others, much younger, brought into existence all over the world as their band had grown in popularity. But they were, still, robots. He was too human for a robot. Too much a robot for most humans. Except her.

He sighed. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether he never wanted to love again, or was just so stubborn that he wanted to be lonely in spite of himself. Perhaps she would know. Perhaps…

He couldn’t talk to her about this. She had no idea what would happen to her. He could never tell her. They would fetch her, he’d deflect her questions as long as he could and then he’d send her back. He’d let her go. After that, he knew, would be the hardest part.

Because when he closed that portal behind her, they wouldn’t destroy it. It was too useful. Sometimes, another dimension to escape into was all that kept Hatchworth stable. It would be nearly impossible, he knew, to know that she was always only on the other side of the portal. But she had such a short life, and his would be so long. There would be only so many moments he could sit and watch until he rusted in place, again and again. And he’d never stop. He’d drive himself mad, watching his memories. He wished she could just stay. But Peter had been very clear on that one. All the heroes went back.

Once he started this process, and saw her, that would be it. The beginning of the last time, but this time he would know, every second that he saw her, that it was the last time. He would have to treasure every moment. Because this was a window he could only open once.

He still wasn’t ready, but he knew he wouldn’t be. He walked across the room to the doorway, to see Hatchworth standing patiently across the hall. The Spine nodded, and Hatchworth walked over, into the dark room.

“Are you ready, friend?”

“No,” murmured The Spine, and gave QWERTY the time and location she’d need. The portal rippled, slightly, and he knew the connection was ready. He tried to give the command, but couldn’t. His speech programs had stopped functioning.

He stood with Hatchworth, both facing the portal quietly.

“I never met her,” said Hatchworth, quietly. “I was in my room at the time.”

The Spine smiled, sadly. “I told her about you. She… she’ll be excited to meet you.”

He gave the command, and the portal opened onto a garden. He’d hoped he could stand it, but the smell of cherry blossom filled his sensors and his eyes filled with black tears.

Hatchworth stepped forward, and disappeared into the blue portal.

He heard a faint, familiar gasp.

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote. I chose the heroes I considered to be core to the fray, but there are others; if anyone particularly likes my wild musings on these, and thinks I missed out someone really important, let me know. It's been enormously fun to write, and a nice change from my other fiction which has a much slower startup because I've got so much more plot to introduce - that one should roll for a long time.
> 
> As to what happens next...well, over to Album Six...


End file.
